


On the Way to "On the Way"

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:51:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5412338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain, a slow drive to the theatre, and three U.N.C.L.E. agents in a taxi-- a glimpse of quiet camaraderie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Way to "On the Way"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlintheglen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/gifts).



The taxi pulled up in front of DelFloria’s, splashing water onto the sidewalk as it hugged the curb. DelFloria’s door opened; Napoleon Solo escorted Alexander Waverly out, holding an umbrella over him. Solo supervised his superior entering the taxi before sliding in next to him.

The driver turned around, revealing himself to be Illya Kuryakin in a proper taxi driver hat and coat. “The Majestic, sir?”

“Yes, yes, quite.” Waverly settled into his seat. “I don’t know why the missus wants to see  A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum,   sounds awful.”

“It has its moments,” Solo commented, smoothing a wrinkle out of his trench coat. “Besides, it’s her birthday, so you should indulge her.”

Waverly gave his senior agent a hard look. “With all that’s going on in Chad right now?”

Solo returned the look. “You’re the first one to say we agents need time off in order to be able to face THRUSH and other bad influences.”

“Don’t be a pot,” Illya added, as he jerked the taxi around a stalled limo. 

“A pot?” Waverly parroted.

“A pot calling a kettle black.”

Waverly made a noise of disapproval before returning his attention to Napoleon. “Comedy? Tragedy?”

“Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight,” the agent quipped.

“He means it’s a musical,” Kuryakin threw in for clarification.

“Ah. Don’t mind musicals, actually. Perhaps it won’t be as unpleasant an evening as I thought.” Waverly settled back in the seat, gazing out of the window. The rain came down so hard, it softened the hard edges and bright lights of Manhattan into a glowy vista of colors on a dark background. Rather pleasant, really. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a few minutes like this outside of HQ, just sitting and being. The rain could be heard above the din of city traffic; it lulled him into an almost zen-like state of meditation.

The peace within the taxi fell apart as Solo’s communicator rang. “Solo here.”

“Agent Walliams, Section III, sir. The security detail is in place, and Mrs. Waverly has been seated.”

“Excellent. We should be there in-- oh, probably 15 minutes with this traffic.”

“Curtain’s up in 20, sir.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Thank you, Walliams.” Solo closed the channel and returned the communicator to his jacket pocket. “Illya, perhaps you should step on it a bit.”

“Have you ever tried ‘stepping on it’ in the middle of Manhattan? There’s a reason I take public transportation to and from work, you know.” Nevertheless, Kuryakin took a sudden right turn; he navigated the distance to the theatre with a fair number of sudden turns and yellow light running.

At one point, noting that Kuryakin successfully missed the rear end of a bus by half a second, Waverly remarked, “Perhaps your talents are wasted in Section II, Mr. Kuryakin. You should be one of our couriers full time.”

“Who would keep Mr. Solo in line, then?”

Waverly nodded sagely. “There is that. Not many can manage him.”

“Are you two ganging up on me?” Solo asked lightly.

“What does your paranoia tell you?”

“I don’t know, Illya. What does  your  paranoia tell  you?”

“My paranoia tells me that the more I talk to you, the less I’m able to fully concentrate on the mission at hand.” He swerved around another taxi, gunned it through an intersection, and turned right at the next block. 

“Good thing I haven’t eaten dinner yet,” Solo remarked.

“Speaking of dinner, gentlemen--” Waverly began.

“All arranged, sir. After the performance, Mr. Slate will personally escort you and Mrs. Waverly to Sardi’s, where a private dining room awaits. Security is already in place, of course, and will remain so until after you leave.”

“Good, good. The missus loves Sardi’s so. But what about you two gentlemen?”

Solo shrugged. “We have an exciting night of catching up on reports and monitoring the situation in Chad ahead of us. But at least Wanda will be bringing us Chinese.”

“She knows extra  jiaozi, yes?” Kuryakin asked as he dodged the taxi around a delivery van.

Solo chuckled. “Yes, she does.”

“I see your reputation as a food enthusiast has been based in fact,” Waverly commented.

“All the best reputations are,” Kuryakin agreed.

The three fell silent, the back seat passengers trusting their driver to get them to the theatre on time and in one piece. Waverly looked out the window again, enjoying the quiet and the company. He had so few moments like this one, given his responsibilities and schedule. He wanted to cement the feeling in his mind, so that he could bring it back to soothe him when the pressure built up to such a degree where he might blow or burn out. 

The taxi finally pulled up in front of the Majestic. Mark Slate waited curbside under an umbrella; he opened the passenger door and held the umbrella over his superior as he got out. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he told his senior agents before allowing Slate to guide him into the theatre. 

Slate took his superior’s coat and hat. “Go on, sir, I’ll take care of these for you.” 

“All me to show you your seat, sir,” a perky young blonde in an usher’s uniform appeared by Waverly’s side. He vaguely recognized her from Section IV.  She brought him down to the seventh row, where an empty seat on the aisle awaited him. She handed him a program. “Enjoy the show, Mr. Waverly.”

His wife smiled at him as he sat. “There you are, Alexander.”

“Sorry, dear, you know how things go.” He gave her a soft kiss. “At least I made the curtain this year.”

“I’m glad of that. Last year, it was awkward swapping out escorts at the intermission. Not that Mr. Solo isn’t charming in his own right-- but he doesn’t hold a candle to you.” She wrapped her arm around his and leaned closer to him as the lights dimmed and the overture began. He rested his free hand on her arm, and soon became lost in the delight of the opening number.


End file.
